


We All Live in a Capital I

by riddleinacapitalm



Series: The Comeback Kid [1]
Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern: Still Have Powers, Angst and Humor, Eventual Romance, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Howard's drinking problems, Identity Issues, Loose Canon, M/M, Magic, Multi, NOT AN OC, Pre-Slash, Rebirth, Slow Build, Underage Drinking, sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-24
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-19 01:04:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3590469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riddleinacapitalm/pseuds/riddleinacapitalm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On March 4, 1945, Captain America goes missing in the fight against Hydra and the nation mourns the loss of their first superhero.<br/>Forty years later, Howard Stark stumbles upon a boy genetically identical to the hero lost to the world. He might be a runaway clone, or an experiment hidden from the world, but Howard knows better than to think it's the man himself. Steve Rogers may have been a part of Project Rebirth, but that was just a clever name that Erskine thought of. Any self-respecting man of science didn’t believe in ridiculous things like reincarnation.<br/><i>"...I don't know if I'm dreaming or if this is some sleeper agent sent by the KGB to get into my good graces and kill me in my sleep."</i><br/><i>"Oh please, Howard, that would be such a waste of resources. Any woman who smiles at you right could kill you in your sleep."</i><br/><i>"... You're not wrong."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Howard's PR Nightmare

Howard always goes on the expedition in the beginning of March, as soon as the dreams start.

Dreams of Peggy, fresh from the war, the two of them standing on the ice next to his plane.  _ The _ plane. She holds out the shield to him. Tells him to bring their boy home; he’s been waiting. He pretends that what’s driving him is something noble and not the same manic devotion he's wrecked everything else in his life with.

It's entirely selfish, but there aren't enough people alive who remember how dangerous his search for Cap can be. How Fenhoff was able to get to him effortlessly with a twist of a ring and a calm voice, with a plane full of Midnight Oil (another mistake) and his own fantasy of redemption. How disaster was almost brought to thousands of New Yorkers because of him. But there is no Fenhoff to hypnotize him now, no Midnight Oil to burn, no Peggy to call after him, just Steve lost in the ocean.

If Howard was a Catholic like Steve, he would call these trips his penance. But he is not religious, and he does not feel guilt. He is a brilliant scientist and engineer born into the desperation of wartime. There was never a choice for him, and his hands are dirty but he doesn't regret anything. Mostly. He’s invented things, horrible things, but he’s done his best to keep the world safe. The Midnight Oil was an abomination, but the havoc it wreaked was not his doing. He took it away from the military, he didn't cross the line. It wasn't his fault.

And Steve crashing his plane into the ocean? That wasn't Howard's fault either. That was Steve being his dumb self-sacrificing self. That was Steve not taking the time to get on the radio with Howard, genius and fast thinker, and instead wasting precious minutes by making small talk with Peggy. The only fault in Howard was not inventing a tracer on Cap’s shield that could withstand the abuse of a fight with two serum-enhanced beings and a crash into the Arctic.

Steve’s an idiot, but he must be freezing down there and Howard can’t stand the thought of it.

He always gets back on VE Day to share a drink with Peggy, wherever she is stationed. If Howard had a poetic bone in his body, he would probably see something symbolic in how all of his trips start and ended with Peggy. He is an engineer and a scientist and a businessman, though, not a poet, so he doesn't think about anything but the burn the alcohol makes when it goes down his throat and the doodles on his napkin for a better sonar to put into production. He doesn't think about how everything he has done since Steve has just been one mistake after another, because Lord knows how much Peggy tears into him once he starts getting maudlin.

Each year, when he's drunk enough to listen, she tells him to give up the ghost of Steve. Each time, he says he'll think about it.

Tony is six and Howard is about to leave for another expedition when the boy falls out of a tree. A  _ tree _ . Jarvis interrupts Howard on his way to the plane to inform him that Tony is en route to the hospital. There is only a second of hesitation, when Jarvis is starting to make that disapproving face he'd gotten decades to improve on. Howard pivots to the garage filled with cars instead of planes and ends up in a waiting room instead of the Arctic.

He doesn't know why Tony was up in that tree, but he knows that the nanny is now fired and Jarvis immediately starts the vetting process for new potential child rearers. He doesn't go to the Arctic that year, but instead spends the time in his workshop while his son recovers from a concussion and three broken bones. 

Tony turns seven and he is a handful and the dreams aren't stopping, but now he's dreaming of Peggy handing him a shield and his boy putting on a ratty helmet and jumping out of a plane to the sound of gunfire and his subconscious is a mess but alcohol always helps dull everything down.

Peggy calls and asks after  _ Anthony,  _ she is _ keeping tabs on him _ , does not mention Steve, and her farewell is as fond as she'll ever sound with him when she tells him to send her regards to Jarvis. Afterwards he throws his phone at the wall.

All he needs is his drawer of whiskey and a blowtorch, and he turns his 1962 cherry red Chevy into a flying car. It takes more than a blowtorch, but the whole thing is a blur and the torch is all he remembers. He doesn't think about Steve telling him about the night he enlisted, how he was less than ten feet from Howard and his quickly put together flying car (his real efforts were on the war effort, and getting thrusters to support the weight of a car while still remaining small enough to maintain the aesthetic--) and how that moment where, for a second, Howard had made the impossible reality for Steve. And then helped Steve become the impossible. He doesn't think about all the little things he did that he thought were inconsequential at the time, but in fact changed everything, and all the things he poured everything into that ended up as nothing.

So he builds a flying car. He cuts down the tree. He takes apart a Harley Davidson and puts it back together with the latest weaponry he has. He makes a shield, identical to the first but made from a titanium alloy, because vibranium was the rarest metal on Earth, and like supersoldiers who crashed planes and genius boys who fell, were so quickly lost but irreplaceable.

At some point, when engine parts and empty bottles are scattered around the floor and he is lying in the center of it, Jarvis comes down to inform him that Tony has awoken and is ready to come home. He then goes on to explain that the boy was in the tree because earlier he had discovered the elms had been registering a steady voltage of a few hundred millivolts, and had been attempting to add solar panels to see if the combined power source could be viable.

When he sobers up (slightly) he makes plans. The first is boarding school. Not the prestigious private nearby, but the best boarding school. The recruiter he speaks to is excited for Tony’s possible attendance, but puzzled by Howard’s inquiries into the types of trees surrounding the grounds rather than the best instructors that the world has to offer for genius children in need of intellectual stimulation. They’re aspens, small, young, and impossible to climb. 

The second is something that could be interpreted as altruistic, for either artists or returning veterans. It seems like the two have no correlation, but behind Cap there was Steve Rogers, Brooklyn artist, and if Howard couldn’t find the man he would help others like him. He didn’t know much of the boy before he showed up with Erskine, skinny and determined and catching the eyes of everyone at the base. But the man was able to do so much with so little, and Howard with all his excess had wanted to throw everything he had at Steve to see what the man could do with a little help. And he did so  _ much _ . If Howard could give something to someone with even a fraction of the goodness Steve had in him, then maybe it would make up for losing him a little.

He wonders if by doing things that he thinks Steve would be proud of, that it might make up for not finding him.

He is too sober for that kind of thinking.

Tony is sixteen and is going to graduate from MIT in a few months. Howard is slightly disconnected. Howard’s education was built through lying his way around the world, prying information from the scientists he came across and soaking up everything he could learn. He couldn’t give two shits about a piece of paper, just cares about the fact that Tony is still a child and has already created a rudimentary AI in the form of a robotic arm. A self-learning AI that can pick out commands from conversational English. He cares about how many patents the boy has under his belt, how Howard can use the dozen or so Tony has filed over the years as incentive to get his R&D department to work harder and not be so easily outshone by a teenager.

He still funds the Arctic trips, but has not gone himself in ten years. Instead he is sipping champagne and making an appearance at the Steve Rogers Foundation, a charity that serves as a collection of self-sustaining veteran hospitals and youth centers scattered across the East Coast. He poses for the press at the heart of the foundation, a small brownstone in Red Hook that Howard transformed from a place a pair of boys had shared during the war into the community center that is today handing out scholarship awards to orphans in New York. Howard had lost track of that project as soon as it was created.

As for his company, he is finally able to start transitioning from weapons to energy. The arc reactor is the key to clean energy, he's known it for years now, but cost of production and the inability to scale it down are his biggest hurdles right now. He sometimes half-wishes that Vanko were back with him so that there could someone to keep up with him. Then he remembers how hard it was to deal with the amoral genius, imagines adding Obadiah to the mix and the arc reactor technology would be more of a problem than a solution. Another regret like the atom bomb, worse than all the dangerous inventions he made himself forget. He's impatient on a good day, but for something this important he can wait.

He is... He doesn't waste his time on emotions like happiness; he has not let himself feel happiness in years. But as he and his driver make their way from the Steve Rogers Foundation back to Manhattan, he might allow himself the feeling of satisfaction.

The moment is ruined when someone darts into the street and in the shock of seeing a small boy fly into the air while Howard's own body is flung forward in his seat, the first thing Howard thinks is that this is going to be a PR nightmare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took heavy liberties with the science, but there is a basis for most of what's talked about.  
> There is research on trees being a potential power source, though the technology is years off from being able to charge anything substantial. That Tony is discovering this in the late seventies at the age of seven when we're only exploring this option now is why this is fiction. http://www.mnn.com/green-tech/gadgets-electronics/stories/electrical-device-plugs-directly-into-trees-for-power  
> Also for anyone who has issues with the timing of things, I am human so feel free to point out inconsistencies. Tony Stark graduates MIT at seventeen, I say he's sixteen because it's always around March even though the chapter spans multiple years (and Tony's birthday is in May).


	2. Blackout Boy

On July 13, 1977 at 8:37 PM a lightning strike trips two circuit breakers in Buchanan, New York. There should but failsafes in place, but a few loose locking nuts, overloaded transmission lines, and failed remote generators result in the majority of New York losing power for approximately twenty five hours. The resulting looting and rioting are catastrophic. 1,616 stores are reported damaged, 1,037 fires are put out, 3,776 people are arrested, and there is over $300 million in damage to deal with.

In the morning, the power is still out but the sun is out and shining on a small boy, wrapped up in a dirty towel and abandoned on a park bench. He’s dated two weeks old, hypothermic, coughing, and no one is claiming him. It’s the attending doctor’s medical opinion that the poor boy won’t make it through the week.

He makes it, and the newspapers catch wind of the story and name him Blackout Boy.

It's a frenzy to try and find out the identity of Blackout Boy, and over a dozen women step forward claiming the boy for their own. There are blood tests and no mother is found.

He is put up for adoption after three months in the hospital. He is stabilized, but with his underdeveloped lungs and heart murmur he is expensive. No one is stepping up to adopt a boy with such a short expiration date, even with the fame of being the Blackout Boy. Adopting a child is a commitment, a famous blond-haired boy a temptation, but a sickly one not expected to live to adulthood is just a bad investment.

The boy is named Michael. A nurse decides on it, because the blackout was on a Wednesday and the Archangel must have been looking after him (she does not consider that he was found the Thursday after and, by her logic, should be named Sachiel.) The nurse on shift with her suggests Ford as a surname, because Harrison Ford was also born on July 13th.

A few years pass and he's still alive, but the Blackout Boy is yesterday's news. With no one interested in adopting him, he is declared a Ward of the state.

"You're one of those stupid types, aren’t ya? The ones trying to prove something.”

Michael is seven and is walking back to the home nursing his wounds. His face is already swelling from the way Bing used it as a personal punching bag, so he can’t make out who is talking to him, just that they’re taller than him by about a foot.

"What does anybody mean by that, something to prove?" Michael can't see the ground that well but he kicks out anyway and connects with the empty soda can someone threw into the street, "And who’re you, thinking you know what my something is?"

"Yeah, you're one of those, alright."

Michael loses track of the empty soda can to spin and face the boy, only getting a little lightheaded in the process. The boy who so rudely decided to bother him is only half a foot taller at the most.

"And what’re you? One of those types that thinks he has everyone all figured out five seconds after talking? We haven't even met yet!"

"It's been more than a few seconds. Spent a whole twenty watching you get beat by that kid and his goons ‘fore he got bored."

"And I got bored of his attitude before he threw that dead squirrel in Rachel's face." Michael twists his face in displeasure and gets a flash of pain from his wounds, "And I wasn't getting beat up. It was a real fight, I got ‘im back.”

"Yeah, I'm sure  _ he'll _ be feeling it tomorrow."

Michael squints at the boy.

"I ain't got a thing to prove."

"Then I guess I ain't the type that has you figured out." The boy kicks the empty can without looking down. Michael’s not envious of his coordination. "I'm Rick. But you can call me Danger."

"Okay, Danger. Name is Mike."

"Oh crap, no, that sounds horrible. Don't call me Danger. Rick is fine."

"You got it.”

“Wanna get some ice cream?"

* * *

 

~~ It almost doesn't hurt, it just startles him. ~~

Michael is ten and he has nothing to prove.

He just thinks that people should hold themselves up to a certain standard of decency. So if he sees Bing acting like a bully and pushing Jared around just cause he can get away with it--because Jared gets a few bucks from his aunt every week--’cause Jared would rather roll over belly up than try and take on Bing and his crew--Michael is going to make sure Bing can’t make a quick buck off of bullying. Even if Michael has to bleed all over the cash so that it’s of use to no one.

The first time he got punched in the face should have been a foreign painful sensation and a deterrent against future fights. Instead he embraced the pain like an old friend and jumped back on his feet with renewed vigor. He’s gotten a few years now under his belt at the tender age of eleven to learn that swinging a fist isn’t going to win him any fights. He bites and claws and kicks, resembling a street cat more than a brawling human.

~~ He feels weightless, his head filled with air and his whole right side is tingling and kind of burning, but maybe that's because he can't feel the left. ~~

Michael insists to Rick that he is not crazy, too often to really convince anyone they’re not crazy, but Rick just laughs and throws an arm around his shoulder. He always says something stupid, “Denial isn’t just a river in Egypt, Mikey.” and ruffles his hair. Mike hates when he does that, hates feeling small.

He isn't all just blind righteous fury, though. He has plans, plans that are more than just being a foster kid or the Blackout Boy or the kid who you can’t let bite you during a fight. He is going to be president, or Maya Angelou, or... or Dalai Lama. When he's not getting his teeth kicked in, he is reading, and when he's not reading he is drawing. Mr. Rodriguez down the street is an art teacher who thinks he has something, and lets him use his studio sometimes. He’s the one who encourages Michael’s passions and tells him about the Steve Rogers Art Scholarship where five kids get $500 and places in some fancy summer art program that is for wealthy children who are going somewhere.

He doesn't really believe that he's won until there is a certificate in his hands and people are taking his picture. Rick isn't into this stuff, not like Michael is, but Michael can't wait to tell Rick that he's going to be an artist. They're meeting up at the parking lot halfway between their places later, and Rick is going to expect him to buy him food because he's supposed to be rich now. He’ll see if he can stretch three dollars and seventy-eight cents between the two of them.

~~ His life is supposed to be flashing before his eyes but instead it's darkness and snapshots of a car, a weathered face, a clear blue sky. Water. Static. Cold. A mustache. ~~

There are some kids teasing a mutt with a ratty old tennis ball, and Bing is a part of them so he knows that something is going to go wrong for the mutt. Michael's in his nice suit, the one that's riding up in the ankles because he's had it for years now, and he should just keep walking until he gets to Rick but it's Bing who is the thorn in this side of the neighborhood. Not enough people stand up to Bing that he can continue walking.

The dog darts out into the street, chasing after the tennis ball and he doesn't even think he runs after it andit'stoolateandeverythingisweightlessandthendark.

He ruins his suit.


	3. No Comment

"How's the kid?"

Howard doesn't look up from his paperwork to acknowledge the doctor's existence. The statement took his people less than an hour to write, but it was a good balance between remorseful and not apologetic. The boy ran into the street, clearly at fault, and Howard immediately put his SI medical staff on the case. The boy would probably come out of the situation healthier than he was used to. SI would survive this, as long as he takes control of the situation. Top-notch medical treatment for the kid, maybe a big check or two so the parents won’t sue, and the press conference in the next twenty minutes he needed to start prepping for.

They were on the medical floor of the New York branch of Stark Industries, staffed by the some of the most tried and tested doctors in the country. It wasn't common for companies to have more than a well-functioning first aid kit, but SI’s R&D filled themselves with the type of intellectuals that easily cause explosions and broken bones. Howard has to keep pretty close watch for when things start leaning towards mad-scientist so he can pull the most reckless ones out for a SHIELD evaluation (and possible recruitment.) Even with the best failsafes in place, SI needs a readily available medical facility at all times, and a team of lawyers devoted to employee liability.

It was just his luck that the same day he runs over a small child that there’s a particle accelerator miscalculation he needs to fire osmeone for. The majority of the doctors are working endlessly attending to the array of burns his employees suffered.

Dr. Streiten is the only one willing to step up and attend to the child. He’s competent, one of the doctors he thinks might be able to handle the stranger situations that come out of SHIELD if he weren’t so…  _ soft. _ Perfect for the press conference later, his smile was the type to put people at ease.

"He should be paralyzed." Howard looks up and Dr. Streiten doesn’t have his usual smile on.

He breathes sharply through his nose, closing his eyes briefly before going over the wording in his mind, “Should? I asked how the kid is, not how he should be.

He signs off on the statement and hands it to his assistant, nodding at her briefly before turning an expectant gaze to the doctor.

"Yes, yes. My mistake. The boy came in with three stable fractures in his ribs, open compound fractures in his leg, and comminuted fractures in his arm. Oh, and an open fracture to the head. All on the left side." The doctor takes a deep breath in before giving a bewildered smile, "But the past three hours that he has been under my care, his skull has been knitting together at an almost inhuman pace."

"Almost inhuman?” Howard needs the man to speak in more literal terms, “Is it knitting itself a rate you can track?"

"Have you ever seen a flower bloom before your eyes?"

"Don't wax poetic with me, Streiten. And the fractures in his arm and leg? Comminuted means surgery. Lengthy surgery. Hell, any of those could mean surgery."

"Already stabilized. I suspect after his head has healed we will see a similar rate of regeneration with his other injuries."

Howard swears. He'd hate to have to call SHIELD in when already the situation is public and messy.

"How many people know about the extent of his injuries? And the rate of healing?"

"Just you. The others who assisted me in stabilizing him all left his care in my hands once there was nothing more to do. I believe they were all eager to further test our advances in burn treatment.”

"Any blood samples taken?"

"No, it was unnecessary at the time."

"Good man. Take a blood sample now, I'll take it to my lab. This stays in-house, alright? Only you or me seeing the kid from this point on. And no one eyes his chart, either." He buzzes the intercom for his assistant, "Send someone to get Michael Ford’s medical history, birth certificate, whatever the hell we can dig up. I want every paper there is on this kid."

"I'll have it on your desk by tomorrow, Mr. Stark."

"See that you do. Now let me check on our patient."

Howard stands up and follows the doctor out, determined to see the kid himself.

Howard doesn't believe anything that he is seeing today.

A swatch of Michael Ford’s blood is magnified and there for him to see on a cellular level, and his eyes are squinting to see if the change in clarity will reconcile what he’s seeing with what he knows is possible.

What he knows he should be seeing is the red blood cells of a healthy, if malnourished, normal ten-year-old boy. Maybe a slight mutation to indicate the accelerated healing process, though the gene mapping would be more likely to explain that little eccentricity. He shouldn’t be seeing…

See, he knows these cells intimately. He’s only spent a few brief years studying them in his youth, but nothing has ever been able to recreate the beauty he had thought been lost to him forever after that ugly Fennhoff business. They gave off a slightly blue tint from a hazy film coating it, but the red was still vibrant enough to shine through. Red, white, and blue.

It’ll still be hours before the boy’s DNA is mapped out and he can get a better handle on the situation. SI wasn’t a genetics lab--he had refused all contracts in recreating the serum and usually geared away towards anything dealing with genetics and bio-enhancement--but Howard’s multi-level personal workshop had the best technology the world had to offer. And he was betting that that technology would tell him that this kid had DNA markers eerily similar to a certain super-soldier...

So he probably ran over a clone. A sophisticated clone, better than anything any of the current minds he knows of could come up with with resources he thought were lost to the world. He doesn't know how this has happened. All of the attempts at recreating the serum were disastrous and grotesque, and he can only imagine what the attempts at cloning Rogers looked like. Probably the stuff of nightmares, considering today's science. By today's science, cloning a human to the point where it becomes a serum-carrying functioning member of society, is quite improbable.

He doesn’t believe his eyes. Or his mind. Anything today, really.

He blindly gropes the table, not tearing his eyes away from those goddamn vitay-ray affected fucking blood cells, until he finds his telephone. He dials the number with muscle-memory, and they pick up on the third ring.

"Peggy Carter." A familiar English accent announces, as if he didn't know who he was calling.

"You retired yet, Peggy?"

"Howard." A long, drawn-out sigh, "Don't be obtuse. If this is a matter of grave importance, you know I will always make the time to hang up.”

“I need a second opinion.”

“Alexander Pierce is proving to be quite capable. I’m sure he would be delighted to assist you with whatever you’ve gotten yourself into this time.”

"He has shark eyes."

"Shark eyes aren't blue, Howard. They're dark, rather like yours."

"I know shark eyes when I see 'em, and I know you don't like him either. I don't want someone like him dealing with this."

"You want me to ask you what your 'this' is. I would really rather not—it usually skirts treason. I'm trying to retire with dignity."

"Not even over some fondue?" A code that Steve would've been mortified to know of, "Your phone's not bugged, right?"

"Many have tried." Peggy sniffs, and Howard feels a fondness for her that he hasn't felt since the early SHIELD days, "Alright, Howard, I'll bite."

"I think I'm going out of my damn mind."

"This doesn't have anything to do with the poor boy you’ve run over, does it?"

"Come to New York and find out."

"I'll be there by tonight."

"Flying in from Indochina?"

"You're calling a landline, Howard, you know exactly where I am."

"I know exactly how you might get around that obstacle too."

A short pause where Howard knows Peggy is rolling her eyes.

"Goodbye, Howard."

"See you, Pegs."

Michael read once that when you're on fire, it only hurts for a little while. Then adrenaline puts your body into shock to block off the pain, and after a little bit nerves are burnt through and you can't feel anything anymore.

He is burning, all the way down to the very core of him, and he is waiting for his nerves to fry up so that he can be comfortably numb for a little bit. It's not working, though, and as he wakes up (he hadn't even realized he was asleep,) he becomes more and more aware of all the little ways his body hurts.

A groan escapes his lips, and a warm and calloused hand brushes his and he wants to tell them to stop because he hurts, but his hand doesn't actually hurt now that he thinks about it. Or at least the right hand doesn't. As he comes into his body more, the pain localizes into various spots, but all on his left side. And it hurts and his head is throbbing and each breath he takes is like a dagger to his chest and this is worse than an asthma attack--

He blacks out.

Peggy lets herself into Howard's office at half past ten, unsurprised by what she sees. A mess of papers strewn about the man's desk and a whiskey glass in his hand as he glares at the papers through his spectacles as if they have done him some personal wrong is quintessential Howard.

"Alright now, you've got me here." Peggy announces, and Howard looks up as if she's startled him.

"Peggy!" He gives her a bright smile before it quickly drops and he's glaring at the papers again, "I think this must be a trap."

Peggy raises an eyebrow and moves across the office space, pouring herself her own glass, "You have done a remarkably good job in not telling me anything of importance. I hope you're proud of that."

"Horrendously proud, that's me." Howard ruffles through papers before handing her a few, "That's the kid I ran over. Well, not me, my driver. But he's a couple floors down sleeping it off anyway."

Peggy skims through a birth certificate, school records, and medical history.

"This boy has horrid luck," She says to herself, "No wonder his health has been so poor—he started his life sick on a park bench."

"Been. Past tense."

"Pardon?"

"His health  _ has _ been a mess. But look at the dates. Hasn't been hospitalized since he was seven. The kid had anemia, scoliosis, and a heart murmur one appointment, and then six months later his platelets are overflowing with iron, his back is straight, and his heart is pumping like a goddamn ox. Imagine what other ailments that they hadn't bothered to check that might've gone away."

"So you called me here because you believe you've found a gifted boy? Good health seems hardly the type that SHIELD typically interests itself in."

"This boy isn't just gifted. The boy is pumped full of Steve's blood."

Peggy drops her glass and starts as it crashes on the floor.

The two of them stare at the broken glass for a few moments before Peggy takes a deep breath and sits down in the chair opposite Howard.

"I should clean that up."

"I pay people to clean that up. Don't bother."

"You're horrible, honestly, the way you worded that. It made the boy out to be a vampire or some horrific creature." She takes another deep breath. "Pour me another drink and tell me what you mean by that."

"You got it, Pegs." The two of them take a moment to settle before Howard continues, "The kid's got the serum. And not just that, he's got Steve's blood type, his DNA, his medical history, and his life story. I mean the kid was deaf in the same damn left ear. He was at the Steve Rogers Foundation getting an award for his damn artwork and I don't know if I'm dreaming or if this is some sleeper agent sent by the KGB to get into my good graces and kill me in my sleep."

"Oh please, Howard, that would be such a waste. Any woman who smiles at you right could kill you in your sleep."

"... You're not wrong."

"So there is a hospitalized child floors away with Steve Roger's DNA, including the serum, and you are unsure as to whether you are being lulled into a trap or not."

"Got it in one."

"And he hasn't woken yet?"

"His head was cracked open, and now his other limbs are knitting themselves back together. Kid woke up for a few minutes, thrashed around, then passed out again."

"Steve was always so tired after he had to heal himself."

"Zola's dead, right? We're sure of that?"

"Five years before this child was born, it seems. I oversaw the man's cremation myself." Bitterness ran through her as she thought of the man, but she let it pass through her, "There were few who worked with any form of the serum, and even fewer now who are alive."

"The kid gets beat up a lot."

"Children are often cruel."

"He's all bandaged up and small, but damn he looks like him." He laughs to himself, "Even if this is some trick, I half don't mind. There aren't near enough pictures of him out of uniform, outside of those damn films they made him do. It's nice to just be able to see him again."

"Howard..."

"I know, I know. But Peggy, I found him."

"... As unorthodox the method was, I suppose you have."

* * *

 

"... Steve?"

There is pressure on all sides of him, and he is aching and burning and itching. There is a sob and he thinks it is coming from him but it sounds too far away for him to tell.

"He's so small."

He frowns, collecting himself enough to know that they're talking about him. And it doesn't matter what his size is, he can still do everything that anyone else can.

He gets used to the pain and it becomes a sort of dull enough ache that he can finally open his eyes and take in his surroundings. It smells like a hospital, but everything is metallic and only one of the people in the room has on one of those doctor coats. The other is a man with a mustache and a suit, and the other a woman with soft curls. Her face looks sad to him, something like how the hospital staff used to look at him when he was bedridden for days and thought he would die, and it twists something inside him. Someone as pretty as her shouldn't look so sad.

"Wha’ happened?" He slurs, and the sound of his voice is something sharp bouncing around his head and filling him with regret.

"Hello, Michael." The doctor steps forward, a warm smile on his face, "My name is Dr. Streiten. You were in an accident yesterday morning. Do you remember?"

He lets the headache settle and nods gently.

"There was... They tricked the dog into the street."

The man and woman exchange glances and Michael frowns.

"Right. We've contacted your family and they're going to visit you later in the day."

Michael frowns, "I don't have a family."

"Amnesia?" The man asks the doctor, who raises an eye at him.

"No, I mean," Michael scrunches his nose, "They’re not family. That's--nevermind."

The man and woman exchange another look before the woman steps forward and attempts a smile, "Michael, my name is Peggy Carter."

"Hi."

"Right now you're at Stark Industries. This is my good friend Howard Stark."

"Wait, really?" The man did look familiar, "I was just at your... your thing, mister. Um, thank you."

"Jesus Christ." Mr. Stark mutters as he turns away.

Dr. Streiten comes closer and does a few tests, chatting and asking questions, shining a light in his eyes.

Mr. Stark comes back into Michael's line of sight abruptly, and he doesn't know if he should be scared or not.

"You like it where you're staying now, kid?"

"What?"

"Your place. Your foster parents. You like them?"

"I... Nothing bad is going on, if that's what you're asking."

"That wasn't, but good to know. You wanna stay in a mansion?"

"Howard."

Mr. Stark waves his hand in the direction of Ms. Carter.

"Um, can I--Can I talk to Mr. Bubbles?"

"What? Is that a toy?"

"Howard, Mr. Bubbles is the name of his social worker."

"Really? You'd think I'd remember a name like that."

Michael frowned at Mr. Stark, "What's wrong with Mr. Bubbles' name?"

"Nothing. Nothing is wrong with Mr. Bubbles. We'll get him in here as soon as he's able."

According to the background check, Mr. Cobra Bubbles was a Hawaiian-born New Yorker who, until five years ago, had been with the CIA. Almost all of his files were classified, something that would take Howard a bit of effort to get around, and he had been assigned to Michael for two years now.

"Nothing about this kid makes sense." Howard declared, and Peggy smiled.

"Is that why you offered the boy your home?"

"You'd trust him to run about on his own?"

"Dugan has worked with the CIA on multiple occasions. I can ask if he knows of a Mr. Cobra Bubbles."

"Whoever he is, he's more invested in the kid than his foster parents. He's getting here in, what, an hour now? He knows something."

"He knows that the boy is his charge. We know too little to assume anything else."

It took only half an hour for Mr. Bubbles to arrive at Stark Industries, and once Howard set eyes upon the man his name seemed even more ludicrous. He was a large imposing man with small gold hoop earrings and the stare all men capable of killing with a hand tied behind their back seemed to have. There was nothing bubbly about him.

"Mr. Stark."

"Mr. Bubbles."

Mr. Bubbles acknowledged Peggy's presence with an inquiring eyebrow, and she shook his hand with a graceful smile, "Peggy Carter."

He nodded and surveyed the lobby, zeroing in on the elevator, "Mr. Ford?"

"Is recovering admirably." Peggy supplies, leading the company to the elevator, "Howard is providing the best care available for young Michael."

"I see."

The rest of the trip passes in silence.

"Mr. Bubbles!" In an hour, Michael has gone from near-catatonic and confused to almost jumping out of bed.

"Michael." An almost-smile graces Mr. Bubbles' face as he acknowledges the boy.

"This is Dr. Streiten." Michael introduces, sitting up and gesturing towards his doctor, "Doctor, this is Mr. Bubbles."

"Pleasure to meet you." Dr. Streiten shakes Mr. Bubbles' hand with an indulgent smile, "You must be proud of him, he's been a model patient."

Michael beams under the praise.

Howard and Peggy exchanged another look.

* * *

 

"Mr. Stark!"

Tony doesn’t sigh like he wants to when he sees a half dozen reporters waiting for him after class. He smiles charmingly, running through his head which low-traffic routes on campus will take the least amount of time.

"What are your thoughts on your father taking in one of the orphans from the Steve Rogers Foundation?"

"Mr. Stark, what does it feel like to have a little brother now?"

"Do you think your father took in the boy out of guilt for hitting him with his car?"

Tony's press smile flickers for less than a second before it comes back stronger than ever.

"No comment."


	4. An Inevitable Trainwreck

When Tony makes it back to his room, he throws the first thing he sees (a lamp) across the room (it knocks into another lamp and if he weren't so angry he would have laughed.) It's not until everything is settled in pieces on the floor that he realizes that he's not in _his_ room, but Rhodey's.

Whatever. He's stashed enough alcohol in both.

"Shit, Tony, what the hell?"

His room wouldn't have tried to calm him down, though. Bonus or negative points?

"I tried to join a rock band, but they say I have to trash a room first. You don't mind, right Rhodey?" Now that the lamp is gone, he looks around and kicks a trash can. A few papers and a candy wrapper fly into the air, but the brief disruptive violence satisfies nothing.

"Just because you sleep here half the time doesn't mean you have the right to trash my room instead of yours. Tony. _Tony_ , you're not trashing my room." Rhodey's faith in Tony is astounding, because despite Tony already having destroyed two lamps and displaced a trashcan, Rhodey has not gotten up from where he's studying on his bed. He thinks a stern talking-to is enough to stop Tony from wreaking havoc on college-issued furnishings. It's cute.

"You're three stories up. What'll happen if we throw your bed out the window?"

"I’ll beat your ass is what’ll happen. Fuck you, Tony, no one's throwing my bed anywhere. Besides, it wouldn't even fit."

"I'm a certified genius. I'll make it fit."

"You're certifiable."

The two eye each other, both wary, before Tony sighs and flops down next to Rhodey on the bed. Rhodey gives a longer, louder sigh and reaches over to his bookshelf to grab the hollowed out textbook Tony insisted on keeping in his room.

"This tastes like shit." Tony muttered, taking a long swig from the flask that was inside.

"More for me then."

Tony cradles the flask to his chest before Rhodey can even try to make a grab for it.

It takes them half an hour to finish the flask and start on the bottle of Everclear that Rhodey had saved for the weekend. It takes another twenty minutes before Tony stops talking about the weather and the intricacies of various projects he’s working on without context of what the projects are. Another ten minutes of silence and Rhodey feels safe starting a Serious Conversation.

"So what happened?"

"Howard's an ass, that's what happened."

"Yeah?" Rhodey wonders if he can sober up and finish reading the assigned chapter by tonight, or if Tony’s going to do something stupid again because his family doesn’t know how to communicate, "Doesn't that always happen?"

"Well, yeah, but this is different. I mean, this isn't his usual assness."

"Really now."

"Really really. He got a new son, Rhodey. I haven't seen him since the Christmas party and he bought a new son."

"You can't buy people, Tony." Tony doesn’t respond well to comfort. Rhodey’s attempts so far have resulted in the boy exploding then icing him out for weeks at a time. Pointing out little inconsistencies to distract him and give him a space to rant until he got tired, though, seems to work without anyone getting hurt.

"I can't, but Howard can. You seen the papers yet? They're probably in the fucking papers already. I bet he's some child prodigy or something. They said I had a little _brother_ , Rhodey. Who the fuck says that to someone?"

"That sucks. You talk to your dad?"

"Oh, Rhodey Rhodey Rhodey. _Rhodey_."

" _Tony_."

"I can't talk to him, jeez, Rhodey. Keep up." He shakes his head and stands abruptly, looking like he's going to fall over before he sways to Rhodey's clunky monitor. His outdated monitor over a year old already. It’ll do for now, but already Tony’s plotting a new Christmas computer. Computers are the gateway drug of technological advances, and the way people interact with technology is going to change rapidly in the next decade or so. He can smell the future like blood in the water. Like a shark. The smell of progress is like a wave crashing into the calm waters… of… stagnant opersating systemes. No, that’s not right. It was going thorugh natural selection and the computer was the Big Bang and everything was stacking itself on top of each other and snowballing into something large and beautiful and majestic, like a fucking... A multi-cellular organism of progress.

Rhodey puts an arm around Tony's shoulder, squinting at the screen. Right. He’s on a mission.

"What are you doing?"

"Hacking."

"Into what?"

"Whatever I can get my hands on. Like these medical records from some Dr. Satan."

"I think that says Streiten."

"I know how to read between the lines."

* * *

 

Anthony Edward Stark does not walk back into the mansion, but instead saunters. He is wearing ridiculously expensive sunglasses and a bespoke suit so that every inch of him is drenched in luxury. He has a few hours to kill before Rhodey is expecting him for the craziest spring break of their lives and plans to spend at the most half of that time assessing how bad the situation has gotten in his absence.

The mansion seems the same amount of empty and intimidating as it always does, with no sign of a child anywhere. He stops first at the greenhouse, where Maria should be making her rounds before getting started on her day. She's by the herbs today, hair tied back with a ribbon and a dark green apron protecting her silk blouse.

"Mother."

If Maria is surprised by Tony's presence, she doesn't show it. Instead she gives him a majestic smile and waves a hand for him to come closer.

"Anthony, you're looking well." Kisses on the cheek and a fond pat on his arm.

"And you're looking radiant as always." He leans against a table of heliconia, bristling when a flower tickles the back of his neck. He drapes himself stylishly against it regardless, and hopes that none of the red and yellow lobster claws stick to his clothes.

"Flatterer." Her scolding tone is cut with the same serene smile she always wears, and Tony's grin wears a little thin at the edges, "How are your classes?"

"They're going great. Learning a lot, getting good grades. I heard that I have a baby brother now."

Tony can see the hesitation in his mother’s face before she snips at the dying leaves of her sage plant.

“The boy--" She starts, and moves on to the rosemary, "There's no need for familial endearments, we haven’t adopted him. We are fostering Michael, as was said in the press release."

“Because ten-year-olds were so fun to deal with the first time around.” Tony mutters, scuffing his shoe on the hard ground and ignoring the sharp look Maria gives him.

“The boy is a talented artist for his age." She continues, moving on to the marjoram. "A little old-fashioned, but with what people call art nowadays, old-fashioned is a reprieve.”

“An artist?" Tony can't contain himself anymore, "Dear old Dad, the guy who claims that pencils are only useful for drafting, is encouraging this kid’s artistic spirit?" He shakes his head before coming to a realization, "He hasn’t told you why, has he? Dad taking the kid in is as confusing to you as it is to the press.”

“Anthony.” Maria warns, sending him another look that signifies the end of this conversation.

“Right. It was wonderful seeing you, Mother.”

“Always a pleasure, Anthony.”

He leaves before she gets to the basil.

* * *

Michael has a schedule.

Every Saturday at nine o'clock, a driver escorts Michael from Stark mansion to Stark Industries for his physical with Dr. Streiten.

Usually at a physical, whenever they remember to get him a physical, a doctor skims over Michael's chart, listens to his heart and lungs, tell him he's underweight, and then sends him on his way. With Dr. Streiten, he runs on treadmills with wires attached to his chest, has X-Rays and MRIs and tests for his eyes and ears. They talk about what he eats and how much physical activity he usually has throughout the week, and instead of prescriptions for all of the ailments on his chart he gives him a note to give to the kitchen at the mansion detailing what nutrient and caloric intake he should have. Instead of the occasional lollipop or pencil from the reception desk at the other doctors, he has lunch in Dr. Streiten's office and long conversations. There he learns that the J in the doctor's name stands for Jonah, and that he was married once, a long time ago. He tells Dr. Streiten about his friend Rick Jones, and Mr. Rodriguez' painting studio, and when he mentions how he likes to read the doctor lends him an old copy of the Wonderful Wizard of Oz.

After his time with the doctor, a driver takes him back to the mansion. The driver is always quiet and stone-faced, no matter who it is (it always changes,) so he never gets to learn their name like he does with the rest of the staff. Once he gets back, he goes to his room and draws. Dinner is at seven in the kitchen, (Carl is the head chef and always eats with him and talks about all of the different food he's had around the world,) and he goes to bed by nine.

Saturday is his favorite.

Monday through Friday never change much. He wakes at seven, has breakfast at eight placed at the center of the long dining table with his feet barely brushing the ground and his shoulders hunched over trying to make himself disappear. Howard is at the end, a newspaper hiding half his face as he drinks coffee and occasionally peers at Michael as if he's trying to see through him. He inquires after his well-being, an average of three probing questions (Michael likes to keep count in his head,) and then folds the newspaper neatly, places it on the table, and leaves with a curt nod. Sometimes Mrs. Stark will join them, but Michael learns from Carl that she travels a lot for charities that she works on.

At nine, Michael's first tutor comes in, and the rest of the day is spent with the three hour sessions with all of the different tutors. Lunch and dinner are in the kitchen. Bed is at nine.

As his casts come off, his Sundays become Physical Therapy days and he meets Leslie, a kind woman with steady hands and a joking demeanor that puts him at ease. She helps him regain all the motor control and musculature he had lost while his left side was pretty much immobile, and he starts feeling stronger than he did even before the crash. Lunch and dinner is in the kitchen. Bed is at nine.

He has lived in worse places. He was born in worse places. He has had all sorts of guardians with all sorts of quirks, and at least in this place there is a sense of security. He is looked after, he is safe, he is never hungry. Mind numbingly safe. Before, every street he would walk down would have the potential for danger. Every moment could’ve been his last with Bing or a violent stranger, even getting sick felt like it could’ve done him in. Michael finds himself buzzing with repressed energy over how little he has to actually do here. No younger kids in the house to look after, nothing for him to clean, nothing to fight over. He’s still on high alert, jumpy at the lack of movement. The static quality of the house unnerves him more than any street in Brooklyn.

He doesn't know why he feels like a prisoner. And it makes him feel guilty, after all Mr. Stark has given him. But he's itching with the need to _do something_. To run around and scrape his knees on concrete and fight a bully and argue with Rick and maybe just break something. Maybe this is just how rich kids are brought up, and that's why the snobs on the news are always getting into trouble, because everything around him is so safe and he's about to lose it.

* * *

 

Tony watches the little blond pipsqueak from the doorway, trying to get a read on what makes this kid tick without having to actually make contact. He looks mind-numbingly average. Scrawny kid with a piece of graphite scribbling on a sketchpad, his tongue sticking out in concentration and eyes almost crossed from how close he is to the paper. One could call the kid cute, if they were inclined, but there were cuter kids if you were in the market. Tony himself was a fucking childhood media darling, with eyelashes that makeup artists fucking fawned over and faceshots that graced magazine covers and holiday calendars. This kid has that All-American cherub shit going on, but Howard was a weapons maker; he didn’t want fucking cute, he wanted a man of iron that took no shit from anyone.

Was this _really_ just a PR stunt because he ran the kid over? If he wanted the kid smiling for the press, it would have made more sense to remain a benefactor of the kid’s future career goals rather than going the whole mile and trying to raise the kid. Now whatever fuckups a fucking _aspiring artist_ was going to go through would be on the Stark name. They were gonna raise the kid into a dick, Tony could tell. Rich artists were dull as shit, and it was all going to be Howard’s fault. Was Tony supposed to call him his brother now? Was his brother going to be a rich artist dick?

The blond pipsqueak looks up and Tony schools his face into a look of apathy so he doesn't look startled at how the kid’s face fucking lights up. The kid stands up quick and sways back and forth on his feet for a second before running up to Tony and sticking his hand out to shake.

“Hi! I’m Michael. You’re Mr. Stark’s son, right?” 

Fuck. He can’t fucking deal with this shit. That face, all eager and bright and shining like a fucking sun.

“Right.” He says noncommittally, ignoring the hand that the kid still has stuck out and focusing a little over the boy’s shoulder at one of the Ming vases along the wall.

"Right. Nice to meet you. Um, did you come here for a reason?" He asks, a hopeful look on his face like Tony is fucking Peter Pan going to whisk him off to Never Neverland. Tony makes sure not to emote in the slightest, and his gut churns as the kid’s smile slowly drops off his face in his peripheral. This is satisfaction he is feeling. He is satisfied.

"Just checking in on the stray before I head out for spring break."

The kid's nose wrinkles in distaste and he frowns up at Tony. Jesus, the kid is short. Barely comes up to Tony's chest, "Stray?"

"Would you prefer defective product? Howard did break you before he took you home, after all. Are you collecting dust in the corner now?"

The boy's eyebrow wrinkle deepens, "I'm not. I'm _not_."

"Yuh huh. It's Saturday, right? A little after lunch? Have you even seen anyone other than me and Carl today?" Tony raises an eyebrow as the kid starts staring him down. The intensity is a little creepy. Maybe he started the staring first and the kid is just refusing to bend. Makes no difference.

"I had lunch with Dr. Streiten." Michael says slowly.

"Right. Have you even been out of the mansion outside of doctor appointments? It's like you're a pet, and they're not even taking you out for walks."

"I'm not a pet. Or a toy or a stray. And I'm not into name-calling bullies, either."

"Right. That's what I was doing. Name calling. 'Cause you're ten."

"Eleven."

"Right."

"Right."

"Fine."

" _Fine._ "

The two are staring each other down now, no sign of happiness on the blond kid's face anymore, and _good,_ 'cause he didn't _like_ it.

"Right. I don't need this shit. I've got a plane to catch and parties to crash." Tony claps the boy on the shoulder, squeezing a little too hard for how tiny he is, before retreating back out of the room with dignity and grace. "Have fun being stuck in this prison before they get bored and ship you off. Try not to drown in all of the emotional love and support you'll get."

He doesn't know how he feels about this need to make an eleven year old kid feel like crap. He decides then that he's coming back to the mansion for the time being, maybe forever. It's not like he was planning on it before this whole foster kid situation anyway. And he vows not to tell Rhodey, his Jiminy Cricket, that an eleven-year-old called him a bully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter kicked my ass so I split it in two


	5. When the Dust Settles

After a week of bordering on blackouts and the darkest tan he's ever had to date, Tony arrives back at his dorm in MIT with all of the nutrients in his body depleted from his attempt to consume his weight in alcohol. There's a pleasant looseness in his body that lets him know that he's still not completely sober. His BAC is most likely ranging from .10 to .20, and there is a familiar ache growing in his brain that he knows will turn into the biggest monster of a hangover.

There is also a little red blinking light in the corner of the room. His genius mind informs him that it is the answering machine, and that he should probably listen to it. Tomorrow.

Tomorrow comes and he drinks a gallon of water. Or a pint. Whatever. The light is still blinking at him, and he listens to it just to get the light to shut up. Not shut up, stop blinking. Visuals don't have any effect on his hearing, though the pounding in his head that the blaring light creates can only be described as loud. Very, very loud.

And Howard's curt tone from the voicemail is so filled with disapproval that he wants to reach out and slap it away. Its detached tones inquire as to whether or not something unusual had occurred when Tony had last visited, because after he jet off to Mexico the kid, Michael, the blond pipsqueak, had decided that running away from the Mansion would be a good idea.

The fact that Howard had bothered calling Tony at all about the situation speaks volumes about the kid's escape being a direct response to Tony's actions. He drove the kid away, and Howard knew it. He made a kid run away. He made a kid run away. He made a kid run away. He made a kid run away.

He needs coffee.

While he waits for the water to boil, he sits at his desk and starts throwing pens across the room, aiming for the trash can.

It isn't his fault.

He made a kid run away.

He squints his eyes at the last pen on his desk, and instead of throwing the last one in the bin he starts scribbling out ideas on a pad of paper. His big toe feels around the computer on the floor to locate the power button, and he turns on the corresponding monitor on his desk. Two power buttons for one machine. How useless. If entertainment systems could be turned on with a remote, why hadn't they developed the technology for computers? He adds that to the bottom of his paper, realizes it has nothing to do with what he was working on, and rips the note off and tacks it to his wall. The wall is littered with scraps of paper and colorful pins, and one of the largest papers with a note written in large marker reads 'DIGITIZE WALL PAPERS. TRUST NO HUMANS. DIGITAL SECRETARY? D.A.R.Y.L.'

When he gets up to finish making the coffee, he grabs a shirt off of the floor and throws it over his answering machine. The damn thing... It's mocking him, sitting there all silent and judging, and he won't stand for it.

It's not his fault the pipsqueak ran away.

Fucking pipsqueak. God, he was so fucking tiny. He was probably going to die. He was probably dead already, since the voicemail was a week old.

But Michael's blood isn't on his hands. Tony isn't even the Stark that ran him over, this shit's all on dear old dad. Not him. And maybe the staff, because how did the kid get through a whole mansion and the grounds without anyone catching him? The Stark estate is huge, Michael probably got lost and starved to death and got picked over by a fucking raccoon. Shouldn't the kid have a nanny or something? Rhodey calls them his bodyguards, but they never let him have any fun, so what was the difference. One nanny should have been enough to keep the kid in line and this shit isn't Tony's problem.

Tony pours himself a cup of coffee, sits down in front of the computer, and gets to typing.

* * *

 

ONE WEEK AGO

"Peggy?"

"Two calls in as many months? To what do I owe the pleasure, Stark, have you run over yet another child? Maybe the reincarnation of Colonel Phillips?"

"Nah, I just lost the one I got."

A brief silence.

"And when did you lose him?"

"We don't know how he slipped his guard--"

"Guard?"

"You know, his bodyguard--"

"Howard, when I left, assuring Michael's caseworker that the boy would be left in if not nurturing, at least capable hands--"

"How is him being protected not fucking capable, Pegs, it's downright generous I'd say--"

"I did not realize I'd be helping send the boy off to a warden rather than a caretaker!"

"Don't overreact, Peggy, point is he's gone. We've searched the grounds and he must have hopped the fence--"

"--Of course, as per most jailbreaks--"

"--The kid can run faster than he should be able to. I should've put a tracker on him. He's probably reporting to the KGB right now."

"Honestly, Howard. Has your safe been broken into?"

"No, but--"

"Has he stolen any files? National secrets? I know you have cameras guarding at least the crucial areas of the mansion, though apparently not enough to locate the boy."

"Something I’ll be sure to correct with extreme prejudice--"

"Howard, correct me if I am being presumptuous. But has he been happy under your care?"

"What?"

"Honestly, Howard, don't be daft. Has he seen his friends?"

"I... What?"

"His friends, Howard. Surely he has told you about his friends?”

“… It hasn’t come up.”

“Has the boy been holed up in that house left to entertain himself this entire time? Speak to your staff, someone who has gotten close to the boy. Dr. Streiten seemed capable of making human connection, last I spoke to him. He hasn't run off to complete a mission, he's just unhappy. Honestly, Stark, I know you've been cautious about the boy, but how have you managed this far knowing how little you do about humanity?"

"I know plenty about humanity, Carter. I've made millions off of humanity."

"Put your twisted worldview aside for a moment and locate the boy. Tell him you were worried, and then open up communication with him. Ask him what he wants and ask his permission before hauling him back to your home. If you treat him as a prisoner rather than a boy, he will act as such and attempt to escape at every opportunity he is presented."

"You wanna take the kid?"

"I have enough of my own children to deal with, thank you. It would be preferable if neither of us were to raise him, and you know perfectly well why."

"Pegs."

"Howard."

"I can't trust him with anyone else."

"Unfortunately the boy is unaware that everyone in the world is out to get him but you. Find him and convince him of your sincerity, God willing."

"Fine."

"Good luck."

"Bye, Pegs."

* * *

 

"What do you mean the boy's been lying in his medical exams? Why are you bringing this up now and not weeks ago?"

"I was hoping to open a dialogue with Michael once the trust between doctor and patient had been further cemented."

"Whatever. And what do you mean lying, anyway?"

"His hearing exams, for one. His body language indicates that he hears perfectly well. His eyes will sometimes shift when there is a noise, but he doesn't always click the corresponding button to indicate that he has heard it. The tests we do for his colorblindness are inconsistent, as if he is choosing at random what cards to respond to. When I monitor his endurance, he will appear winded shortly after, but his heart rate doesn't increase. I weaned him off of the prescriptions in his file, and his BMI has increased by 10%. Short of hooking him up to an MRI while conducting the tests, I'd have to say he's, well, faking the various disabilities listed in his file."

"So he's a spy."

"Mr. Stark, if I believed he were a spy I would have spoken to you when I first had my suspicions. There are a multitude of reasons as to why he could be pretending, and until we are able to ask him ourselves any conclusion we reach would just be speculation."

"Too bad we can't find the kid. Peggy thinks he's gone back to his home base. He tell you about any of his old haunts?"

"Not too much. There was a Mr. Rodriguez who lived near him and helped him cultivate his artistic skill. And a Rick. Rick Jones? A peer of his, older by a few years. Most of Michael's stories containing the two were never carried out in a specific location."

"Anything else?"

"It may be worth noting that he never mentioned his previous foster parents. And there is a small group of children led by a boy named Bing who enjoy terrorizing the neighborhood."

"Right. Noted."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References: D.A.R.Y.L. (Data-Analysing Robot Youth Lifeform) is a 1985 scifi about an AI robot boy created by the military that learns to be a real boy. He's no H.A.L. but he was made with the intent of being a super soldier. I couldn't resist.
> 
> A little bit of explanation for how I'm writing young Tony, because I do feel guilty for how much of an asshole he is (is this my headcanon? can I use that?):  
> The recipe for his characterization is equal parts:
> 
>   * The asshole from the Iron Man 3 flashback. He drinks so much he blacks out during his speech, makes lewd comments about Maya to Yinsen, and does the ultimate douche brushoff to Killian that is Regina George levels of rude. There are party people, and there are party _dicks_ and Tony seems the latter.
>   * The cocky demeanor seen from RDJ's brat pack days, because is it just me or are there a lot of parallels you can draw from Tony Stark and Robert Downey Jr.? A comical James Dean type on the verge of a downward spiral. 
>   * An asshole private school demeanor that has a hint of Lord of the Flies mentality, formulated from observations of some people in my life. (Not all rich kids are assholes! But all kids are crazy shits, and I have heard of some weird ass shit happening in the private schools near me.) 
>   * The possible dynamic of a father and son with generational gaps, cultural gaps, and poor communication skills. Both of them are leaps and bounds ahead of their respective generations in terms of intellect, but Howard is still a product of the depression and Tony is growing up in the America of excess. I don't have a wealth of experience dealing with WWII vets, but families carrying the weight of untreated trauma with generational and cultural barriers to work through are unfortunately common. Atleast MCU Tony Stark is borderline kid friendly so the worst he can do is be an asshole and drink a lot.
> 

> 
>   
> I love Tony, and I do think he's a good person. But part of what's so big in the MCU is transformation, so writing him as a little shit is _because I care about him and his character development_. Or maybe I'm just an asshole. Who knows.  
>  Whoo boy this was a long note for a short chapter. So here are some images of the actors I use when writing their characters!  
> RDJ in his 20s! Lookit that attitude.  
>   
> Oh wow and look it's kid Evans. Also older than the age I'm writing him now but oh well.  
>   
> 


	6. One Big Happy Whatever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to have this chapter finished ages ago, but then Age of Ultron came out and killed my vibe. Still trying to recover, and ended up rewriting this chapter and the chapters after it a bunch of times while work and school got in the way (darn priorities). Shoutout to Civil War for getting me my groove back.  
> Enjoy!

Howard takes Peggy's words to heart and doesn't send out a team to procure Michael for him. Instead he brings his driver and bodyguard to accompany him through the dregs of the east coast. Turgenov is a former mercenary who helped him with the Vanko situation and had worked for Howard ever since. He's a heavyset man whose face is only capable of a deep frown, resulting in him only looking disgruntled, contemplative, or downright hostile depending on how severe his body language reads at the time.

Together they track down Rodriguez, Michael’s unofficial mentor who turns out to be a critic of Stark Industries, weapons manufacturing, politicians, businessmen, and the government system as a whole. He's also a muralist. Upon learning that Howard is looking for Michael, Howard learns that Rodriguez is also suspicious of Michael’s safety in the Stark manor as his ward, and will only help them look for him to ensure that the boy is safe and not in danger of returning to an abusive household.

Howard is exhausted before the search even begins.

* * *

 

"Why you wanna know where kano at?"

Howard Stark hates children. Rodriguez was instrumental in helping find connections to track down the kid, but Howard is running low on patience. They've been through churches and parking lots, with Howard under Rodriguez' third degree the whole time as if the kid had run away because of _him_. He makes a mental note to call Peggy up later and tell her that she doesn't know how to manage her damn time, if all she does is shit like this.

He hasn't spent this much time and effort on a single person since his hair was still black and the lines on his face were from laughter. He should've put a tracker in the boy the moment he was placed into Howard's custody.

They _finally_ have a tangible lead with a gaggle of children who claim to know Michael. Two boys and a girl head up the group, siblings from the way they refer to each other and none of them the infamous Bing that Streiten mentioned. The tallest one tells Howard to 'get the fuck out of their faces' before Rodriguez starts talking them down in a mix of Spanish, English, and Tagalog.

“You Mikey’s sugar daddy, right?” The shorter boy asks with a cheeky grin.

“What, he not allowed back to slum it wit' us after you broke him and locked him up?” The tallest is too aggressive for Howard's liking and he can sense Turgenov bristle behind him.

“Ricky, shut up." The girl snaps, "This guy saved Mikey, right?"

“After running him over. Worried now he finally away from your ass he might get talkin’? Tell people what really went down?”

“Homeboy seemed fine to me.” Some kid from the back of the group pipes up, and from then on every kid is going back and forth with speculation.

“‘Less he pissed off the Puerto Rican Decepticons 'gain.”

“Oh damn, they got him _good_ last time.”

“And the time before _that_.”

“Black Decepts like him well enough though."

"Yeah, most fools not gonna want the heat fuckin' with _putis_ gon' get them.”

“An’ nobody prolly won’t kill him.”

“Decepts think he funny as hell, all actin’ righteous and shit, thinkin’ he gonna start a Transformers gang or something."

"Shoot, I'd join it for some laughs. Imagine callin' him Bumblebee."

“Hey.” Howard cuts them off quick before they get off on another tangent, “I just wanna talk to the kid.”

He takes out his money clip and separates the cash. Rodriguez makes a choked indignant sound beside him but says nothing.

“Now who can tell me where to find him?”

The kids eye him, and Howard can feel them weighing the odds of seeing what else he has in his pockets before Turgenov can shut them down. Turgenov gives them his harshest glare.

The tiniest one, the girl sibling, chooses to walk up to Howard with a sweet smile.

“If I tell you where he’s holed up, can I visit him sometime?”  _In your big fancy mansion_ , goes unspoken.

“You’re making extra demands?”

“Just a visit, old man. I’ve been worried for Mikey after hearin’ 'bout the accident. Jones said he was all kindsa broken. You prolly want him back home real quick, right?"

“... Fine. I’ll have Michael get in touch with you once I find him.”

“Great! He’s with Ricky. Not Rick, my brother,” She gestures to the boy that told Howard to get the fuck out earlier, “but Rick Jones."

"Tisoy asshole."

"Has _he_ been to your house yet?”

* * *

 

Howard is very low on patience when he finds Michael Ford.

The kid is a little tuft of blond hair squirreled away on a fire escape in some back alley over a dumpster in the filth of Brooklyn, and it took _entirely_ too long to find him.

He makes a note maybe give Streiten a raise for knowing who the hell Rodriguez was since the man actually was worth a damn in the search for the missing child. Even if Rodriguez had to “check in” with the boy first before Howard could set foot in the boy’s peripheral.

Howard's head hurts a little from all of the eye rolling he did today, but he's one of the most successful businessmen in the world because he knows how to pick his battles.

And he finally fucking found the fucking kid in the foulest smelling alley in the fucking world.

The SSR hadn't taken any notes for what the serum might have done to Rogers' sense of smell. The laundry list of things wrong with Steve's body were already so numerous that it didn't make sense to test something as arbitrary as smell. Maybe if they had, Howard would be able to explain how Michael can stomach being downwind of all the things that make city living almost unbearable. The air is thick with old fish and pollution, the fire escape is only yards away from a pile of trash, possibly with a human sleeping somewhere in the mess judging by the smell that only a human in severe need of a bath can create, and God, Howard's eyes are watering.

The boy just raises an eyebrow and looks down at him with such judgement that for a moment Howard is back in the war and the Howlies are about to verbally tear into something and Cap is agreeing with everything his men say without saying a word. He wonders if facial expressions can be coded into DNA, if nature really can beat out nurture, and starts dreading what the boy will look like when he's big enough to set his jaw like he's about to take on all of Nazi Germany with a shield and a pistol.

“This place smells like shit.”

"You're welcome to leave." Michael shrugs in response to Howard's disgust at the alley, and all Howard can do is roll his eyes again. He needs a whiskey and a handful of ibuprofen.

"Yeah, it's not gonna be that easy, kid." Howard eyes the dirty ladder of the fire escape for a moment, then resigns himself to the filth of the city and climbs it. He sits next to the boy, forces himself to relax, and tries to not breath in from his nose. The air is a little better up here, more fish than trash. And yes, there is definitely a human sleeping in that dumpster.

"And why not?" Michael asks, his brows furrowing as he glares up at Howard, "Is this some guilt thing? Cause you don't have to worry about that, my bones are all healed up."

"Guilt has nothing to do with it." Howard huffs and raises his own eyebrow up at the boy. "You were the one that ran in front of my car. Just because you're a child in the eyes of the law doesn't mean I'm going to take responsibility for your reckless behavior."

"Then why take me in?”

Because you're probably a clone of the best man I know, most likely created by some of the worst people I know of.

"Because I'm a philanthropist. Where's your friend? Rick.”

"How you know I was with Rick?"

"Your friend Rachel. Leighton?"

Michael scrunches his nose and scrapes a rock along the metal edge of where he's sitting, "Some lady from Queens says Rick's her grandkid, so she’s taking him out of foster care. He’s packing his stuff up.”

"So you were saying your goodbyes?"

Michael narrowed his eyes at Howard, "That's not why I left. That's just where Rick is.”

Howard raises his eyebrows in what he thinks is a placating gesture.

"Alright. How did you get here anyway? Brooklyn’s not exactly down the block from the estate."

"I biked."

"You biked?"

"It wasn't that bad, I followed the subway line."

"My disbelief isn't from the possibility of you getting lost, though that's a concern as well. Do you know how far of a distance that is?“

"It was fine."

"Where's the bike now?"  


"I gave it to Rick so he can get around Queens okay."

Howard shakes his head, and decides to bring up Streiten's suspicions another time when the kid's less raw, "Right, kid. It’s been brought to my attention I may not have been the best host. What are you gonna need to come back to the mansion?"

"I..." Michael wrings the bottom of his shirt and Howard wonders how people have the patience to deal with others on their terms, “Nothin’.”

“Right. And you biked all the way to a Brooklyn dumpster for what, the exercise? C’mon kid, pull the other one. What d'you need?”

“I don’t need anything.” Michael insists with a frustrated huff, “That’s the point.”

“I'm missing something here.”

Michael tosses the rock at the wall opposite them and clenches his jaw for a moment before looking Howard right in the eyes, “I’m not… Not some pet that gets kept in the house with food and toys.”

Howard raises an eyebrow as the kid stares him down.

"So you don't want education and clothing. How about you run that by Mr. Bubbles first?”

Michael gives a long groan and shakes his head, breaking eye contact, “That’s not what I _mean_.”

“So what do you mean then?”

“I don’t need the..." He waves his hand around, "I mean you gave me all this stuff and I don’t—I haven’t earned any of it and there’s no one to talk to."

Howard feels a twinge in his gut and rolls his shoulders, making a grunting noise to show that he's listening.

"It's like I'm a lab rat with a bunch of people looking in on me eat cheese.”

“You’re not a social experiment kid.” He tries to reassure the boy, and all the kid does is raise that damn eyebrow again. “I wasn’t born in a mansion, you know, I know about fighting your way to the top. It’s okay for someone to help you get a leg up.”

“You don’t _get it_. Everything is nicer, and I’m grateful, but there’s no point. If I’m gonna get a leg up I don’t want to be the—the image. I don’t need to be at the top. I wanna be the one doing things with what I got. And if I can't do that with you—I know I have to stay with someone until I'm older, and Mr. Bubbles says I just need to be a kid, but like—I'm not a kid. I'm eleven years old. I can get by just fine myself."

Howard takes a deep breath, looks for the patience hidden somewhere deep inside him, and reassesses the boy.

"You're tough and stubborn. I like that, Stark men are built on tough and stubborn. But running off cause you feel like you're wasting your potential isn't gonna do anyone any favors. You're just gonna waste everyone's time trying to do it all on your own, and set yourself back years when I can help you now. You wanna do things? Great. Cause I don't take in charity cases." He remembers Peggy's words and tries to channel that part of her that plays on the emotions of others when logic doesn't work out, "And running off like that made me worried. You want to do more? Talk to me and we'll work something out."

Michael looks suitably chastised, playing with the hem of his shirt, and Howard relaxes slightly.

“Do you really want to live on getting by? Or do you wanna let me help you do a little more than surviving? Get somewhere good in life, find a way to pay it forward later on?”

“Is that what you’re doing? Paying it forward?”

Howard considers the boy, how his shoulders hunch forward automatically like he’s used to making himself small. He remembers how Steve would curl into himself when the attention wasn’t on him, still and quiet in the center of the manic energy of his men, and get that same quiet smile that made two hundred pounds of muscle look like a skinny kid used to being humble. He wonders if maybe this is an opportunity to get to know more than the serum that was lost to him, maybe see the man as well.

He reminds himself not to be foolishly sentimental.

“Something like that. I’m not gonna lie, I’m not looking forward to what Mr. Bubbles would say if you decided to take your chances elsewhere.”

"... I guess I can stay with you for a bit. For Mr. Bubbles."

"I'm honored. Truly. Now let's get the hell out of here. Your friend is giving me the stinkeye.”

“Oh yeah, Antonio says we have to come to dinner.”

“Antonio? Is that Rodriguez?”

“Yup. Apparently he doesn’t know your character yet.”

Howard rolls his eyes.

* * *

 

"Tony, please tell me that you haven't tried to turn into a machine."

Tony looks down at himself, centered in an intricate web of robotics, and then up to where Rhodey is standing in the doorway with a white paper bag. One with oil stains at the bottom that cut the workshop smell of burnt metal with fried potatoes and, yes, cheeseburgers.

"If I did I wouldn't be able to eat—" He wriggles his way down and crawls through a gap in the machinery he thankfully hadn't closed up yet, twisting onto his back until he can look up at Rhodey and make grabby hands at the fast food, "Gimme."

"Nope, not until—"

"Please?"

"Get some of that grease off your face first, you look disgusting."

"I look like a robotics genius, thank you." Tony takes some of the napkins Rhodey dumps onto his face and makes a valiant effort to look like he's trying to clean himself up. Rhodey quickly loses patience and hands him a burger.

"Only you would make such a mess that the engineering department would give you a whole workshop to yourself." Rhodey gives the machine a suspicious look, "What is this now?"

"It's genius." Tony says dismissively.

"Of course, but what?"

"Over break someone got into my room, tried to get at my notebooks. Maybe. Probably. Or it was a reporter and thought I had dirt."

The notebooks with all of the expansions of his idea board, equations in the process of solving, the lists of pranks to pull before graduation...

"Don't you have a crazy uncrackable safe for all that?"

"Stark men are always prepared for some punk to try and steal Stark work." Tony mutters through bites of his burger and chases down his healthy paranoia with a handful of fries, "Someone tossed the safe over, tried to break it. Hope it broke their foot."

"So what, this giant thing that won't even fit in your room is some kind of security system in the making?"

"What, this? Oh no, that's gonna be a teleportation device. Trying to make it do more than just disintegrate things. That," He points to a computer a few feet away from them both, covered in paper with printed code and red scribbles and with an entire wall's worth of hardware attached to it, "That is my security system in the making. Right now I'm calling it 'Stay Away Fuckers', but SAF is an ugly sounding acronym. Right?"

"Right. Only the acronym is ugly."

"Maybe I can squeeze an I.C. at the end. Make it crude enough to discourage people further. State of the art security system, impenetrable,  _ S.A.F.I.C.  _ Can I borrow a tissue sample?"

"What now?"

Tony twists around until he's upright and rooting around a box. He pulls out a q-tip and a plastic container, smiling at Rhodey as if there's nothing wrong with his behavior.

"It's going to be DNA based. It takes a few minutes to process, I'm trying to make it go faster. If you're added to the basic security clearance, you can get through the first door."

"First door? Tony, it's a fucking dorm room. You can't put extra doors.”

“Why not?”

“Because the building isn’t yours to mess with. Just rent an apartment."

"Dorming is part of the necessary college experience." Tony says in that flat tone he gets when he’s reciting something he memorized. The kid probably read it in those teen magazines he cycles through like trash and takes as gospel.

"And so is living on your own where you can change the locks without getting written up by your RA."

"If you didn't insist on being the RA in a whole other different building-"

"I love you but if I lived with you I would kill you. I'm serious, man, I'm not-" Rhodey swats at the q-tip Tony's trying to sneak into his mouth, "-This is ridiculous. How long has it been since you last slept?"

"You're not my nanny."

"If I was at least I'd be getting paid for this shit."

Tony shrugs and they eat in silence for awhile.

"A teleporter, man?"

"The future is now."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for any inaccuracies. The internet can only tell me so much, and the rest is just based on my own experiences.  
> Next up, some Tony and Steve together!  
> Heads up, I added this story into a series because of some time skips I'll be using. So each story is going to cover certain ages of the character. This particular age has a few more chapters left, then we'll be getting some young adult MichaelSteve in the next story.


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